


Dog Days Are Over

by foxxcub



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/pseuds/foxxcub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Eames.” Arthur resists shoving a hand through his hair. “We can’t just go around looking like—”</p><p>“Like teenagers?” Eames’ smile gets disgustingly wide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Days Are Over

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO, HERE IS SOME DE-AGING FIC. Written for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/7339.html?thread=10739883#t10739883) at inception_kink: _Something Yusuf develops causes them to de-age to ~~seventeen~~ sixteen years old. Teenage UST antics ensue._ My first kink meme fill! Yes, they are bb boys. I am a creature of habit, shut up.

The first thing Arthur senses when he comes to is the way his clothes feel...off somehow.

He blinks a few times, rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, and suddenly notices the way his cuffs seem too loose. Arthur glances down the length of his body—his trousers are covering the tops of his shoes.

His heart promptly jumps into his throat. It’s—it’s probably nothing, maybe he just remembers this suit fitting different, there’s no reason to get freaked out—

To his right, her hears Eames exclaim, “What the bloody hell is this, Yusuf?” in a voice that is definitely his, but pitched slightly higher, less rough around the edges. He sounds _young_.

Arthur takes a deep breath, turns his head, and when Eames meets his eyes they both say, “Fuck,” in unison.

And then Eames bursts into hysterical laughter.

“I...I may have miscalculated the dosage,” Yusuf says contritely, his expression one of bewilderment and possibly amusement—if the latter is true, Arthur is going to _murder him_.

“Please tell me this is reversible,” Arthur says through clenched teeth, hands gripping the arms of his chair. He can feel himself blushing— _blushing_ , oh god—all the way down his neck. When he shakes his head, several dark curls fall into his eyes, and while Arthur prides himself on rarely having panic attacks, he’s suddenly very close to absolutely losing his shit.

Yusuf bites his lip. “Oh, yes, I should think it is, definitely, I’ll just. Ah. Need some time to work on the formula—”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make do.” Eames hops up from his chair and gives Arthur a cocky, infuriating smirk. His shirt hangs off his frame, which is missing a considerable amount of bulk, and his hair is all close-cropped, soft and fluffy. He crosses his arms over his chest, rubbing at his cheeks as if surprised to find a light scattering of stubble.

“Eames.” Arthur resists shoving a hand through his hair, because it’s a nervous tick he got over years ago, an anxious habit he’d had back when he was— _fuck_. “We can’t just go around looking like—”

“Like teenagers?” Eames’ smile gets disgustingly wide, pulling at that stupid mouth of his. He leans over Arthur’s chair, both hands braced on the arms, tilts his head to one side as he looks Arthur over from head to toe.

“I’d say you’re, what, seventeen?”

“Sixteen.”

Arthur knows his age exactly, can tell from the way his hands twitch and the vague sense of anxious dread in the back of his mind, the buzz of paranoia that everyone is judging him, the gloom of adolescent certainty that he’ll never measure up. Arthur remembers _exactly_ what it was like to be this age, which is why he needs Yusuf to fix them right the fuck now.

“That’s the correct age!” Yusuf says, far too pleased for Arthur’s liking. “Well, at least we know this aspect of the dosage is working properly!”

Arthur can’t help himself any longer. He shoves Eames out of his face and scrambles out of his chair, stomping off to hide in the bathroom in a suit that no longer fits a body that is no longer his. At the moment, he hates everyone.

Yeah, definitely sixteen.

~

It was supposed to have been a simple test run for a simple sedative.

Okay, _simple_ was relative, of course, but for a job like this it was simple enough: a wealthy corporate lawyer wants his fourteen-year-old son to win the national spelling bee, but to do so, he’ll have to beat the reigning champion, a fifteen-year-old named Quentin Randall from Boston who appears to have spent every waking moment of his life memorizing the Oxford English Dictionary. Their client wants them to convince Quentin he’d rather sit this year out.

The idea was Yusuf’s, actually. He’d been working on a new sedative specializing in age regression, which is ideal for younger marks.

“If we can somehow go in and show this boy all the joys and wonders of being a teenager, perhaps his mind will realize there is more to life than pointless contests,” Yusuf had said to Arthur over the phone, voice rising in giddy anticipation. “Also, I have never been to Boston, and I’d truly love to try a real cream pie.”

Arthur should have really thought twice when Yusuf added, “Of course, I’ll need a few trial rounds to get the dosage right...” Testing they could handle. No big deal. The job would be over and done within a week, tops.

He stares at his sixteen-year-old reflection in the bathroom mirror and rolls his loaded die over and over again.

~

When he emerges from the bathroom, Ariadne is standing by the doorway. Her eyes go very wide.

“Aww, Arthur,” she says. She reaches up to pet Arthur’s hair—too long, too unruly, too _ridiculous_ hair—but he flinches and promptly ducks away.

“Don’t even try,” he mumbles, sounding more petulant than menacing.

“I had no idea you were this adorable back in the day.” She clasps her hands to her chest, and Arthur swears if she starts cooing he’ll never speak to her again. “And I thought Eames was precious.”

“Do not _ever_ say those words to me again, and—is Eames still here?”

“No, he took off to go do something possibly illegal, and oh my god, are you _fidgeting_?”

It seems every ounce of his self control vanished the moment he regressed to the emotional sophistication of an amoeba. His face grows hot even as he diligently tries _not_ to think of Eames and where he went and why the hell didn’t he wait for him, god, Eames is such a fucking _loser_ —

Arthur cups both hands over his face. “I’m—I’m just gonna—”

“It’ll be okay, Yusuf’s working on fixing things right now, don’t worry.” Ariadne holds her arms out, goes in to _hug him_ , Jesus Christ. He stumbles back out of her reach.

“I’m going to my room,” he stammers, awkward and hating his life. “Text me if Yusuf has a break through. And tell Eames that he better not fucking end up in jail or I’ll kick his ass.”

Ariadne really does coo at him this time. “I can’t wait to get you two in a room together.”

Arthur gives her the finger and slams the door behind him.

~

A week ago, it had seemed like a good idea at the time to “pull a Saito” as Eames had called it and buy out an entire floor of the Westin. The hotel was a few blocks from the mark’s dentist’s office, and since the kid was scheduled for a two-hour wisdom tooth surgery, it would be as easy as slipping him back to the suite, putting him under for a half hour, then sending him right back to the operating chair.

But now Arthur kind of hates the fact that his hotel room is literally twenty feet from the suite where Yusuf’s been conducting his tests. He couldn’t care less about the convenience for the job.

He’s pacing in front of his closet, eyeing himself miserably in the mirror, his perfectly tailored pants now a good two inches too long, when there’s a loud, obnoxious banging at door.

Arthur doesn’t bother checking the peephole.

“Bloody hell, you Americans and your bloody arbitrary _laws_ ,” Eames growls as he shoves his way past Arthur into the room. He immediately starts to paw through Arthur’s suitcase, his drawers, creating complete chaos within seconds.

Arthur huffs. “Dude, seriously—” He bites his lip, wincing. He hasn’t said the word _dude_ in years. “What the hell are you looking for?”

“Cigarettes. I know you have some in here, I saw you smoking on the balcony yesterday, and _apparently_ I’m not of age to buy them for myself at the moment.” Eames’ mouth twists to one side.

“Is that where you went? To buy smokes?”

“If you must know, I went to buy us a considerable amount of alcohol, since it’s obvious we’re not going to be doing anything job-related until Yusuf gets his compound right. But, once again, my sudden youthfulness thwarted me.” He plows through everything on the dresser, tosses Arthur’s copy of _Middlesex_ over his shoulder, along with Arthur’s reading glasses and a bottle of Evian. “Seriously, Arthur, I need a damn smoke.”

“Jesus Christ, fine, they’re in the bathroom.”

“Thank _god_.” Eames staggers into the bathroom, snatches the half-full pack of Marlboro Reds, and races to the balcony, already lighting up before he reaches the door.

And Arthur takes this moment to notice that Eames’ hideous orange shirt is gone; he’s dressed in nothing but his undershirt and slacks, which are riding dangerously low on his hips. He’s considerably less broad, narrower all over, and yet the white cotton of his shirt clings to his skin and the lean lines of his shoulders, his arms.

Eames takes a long drag, slumping back against the railing to face Arthur, who has followed Eames outside against his will.

“Your tattoos are gone,” Arthur blurts out awkwardly.

“Got my first one in a fit of heartbroken despair when I was seventeen,” Eames replies, breathing in the smoke with a blissful smile. He adds with a smirk, “You’re shorter.”

“Not _that_ much,” Arthur snaps, and fine, yes, he’s standing around in too-long pants and his sleeves are rolled up a few more times than normal, but he’s not _short_. He had a growth spurt when he was fifteen, for fuck’s sake, it’s not his fault he didn’t reach his full height until his freshman year of college.

Eames grins at him, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. “And you are actually capable of blushing now, brilliant,” he says, actually leaning over to pinch Arthur’s cheek.

Or at least he attempts to. Arthur shoves his arm away and contemplates putting him in a chokehold—except Eames is more than likely much stronger than him now, and god _damn_ it, Arthur hates this.

He jerks a hand through his hair. “Look, this doesn’t mean we can’t do the job. We can still get in there and play the part—”

“Darling, look at us. At this rate, no matter how much we pay the surgeon and nurses, they’re going to take one look at a couple of kids walking in and think this whole thing is sodding joke.”

“We’ll get Ariadne and Yusuf to do it,” Arthur replies, feeling his jaw clenching tighter.

“Oh yes, because they’re _masters_ at the whole kidnapping bit.”

“We can talk them through it—”

“Give it _up_ , Arthur, we’re not going anywhere or doing anything of a nefarious nature until Yusuf gets us back to our proper ages.” Eames takes a hard drag and sweetly blows the smoke at Arthur. “Until then, you might as well enjoy reliving your youth.”

 _I hated my youth, thanks._ “I’m not going to just sit around,” Arthur grits out. His heart is pounding hard with frustration and anger, an overwhelming jumble of emotions in his chest. It’s like a switch has been flipped that he can’t turn off—even though he logically knows how to calm himself, he just _can’t_.

And the worst part—the very, very worst part—is the way Eames can just simply look at him and throw everything out of whack.

“Who said anything about sitting around?” Eames drawls, pushing off the railing as he flicks the spent cigarette away. His grin is all cocky teenage arrogance and sexual innuendo, and Arthur, unfortunately, is sixteen. He feels the exact instant his body responds, his stomach fluttering as an anxious heat crawls up his spine.

He takes a step back and says in the most bored tone he can manage, “We’re going to keep working on this job, Eames.” His voice catches on Eames’ name, much to Arthur’s chagrin.

Eames clucks his tongue. “All work and no play, Arthur dear,” he murmurs, sliding easily into Arthur’s space and fucking _nuzzling_ Arthur’s jaw before ducking back inside the room.

It takes a good minute for Arthur to collect himself and will away the desperate erection that’s suddenly made itself known, every inch of his body shivering with want. He’d honestly forgotten what it was like to be this easy, this touch-starved.

“Oy!” Eames shouts, voice slightly muffled. “I’m stealing one of your precious shirts, as I’m fairly certain nothing of mine fits anymore. You don’t mind if I take the Burberry one, do you? I’ll take good care of it, promise!”

Arthur holds his head in his hands as he slides down the railing. He knocks his head against the wall a few times, hoping maybe it’ll help him wake up.

~

The thing is, Auckland happened.

And because Auckland happened, Arthur is having a substantially harder time dealing with the situation at hand.

Somewhere along the way after Cobb retired and Saito made them filthy rich, Arthur had found himself taking more jobs with Eames. It started as a one-time thing, which eventually became a consistent thing, and soon it felt natural to just fall into step with Eames no matter what continent they were on or what the circumstance. Nothing was stated officially, of course, but deep down Arthur had begun to consider them, for all intents and purposes, a team.

Then came Auckland, which had a pub that served fantastic whiskey, and a lot of it. Auckland had Eames’ plush hotel room and exhaustion and a shitty job gone bad. Auckland had Eames clinging to Arthur on a rain-slicked street corner, murmuring filthy gorgeous things into the skin of Arthur’s neck until Arthur could barely wait until they were both out of the cab before tearing Eames’ clothes off.

Auckland had Eames fucking Arthur into his king-sized bed, and Arthur flipping Eames onto his back to return the favor, the two of them trading bruises for whispered words of drunken, breathless endearment.

Auckland had Arthur waking up the next morning in an empty hotel room.

He didn’t hear from Eames for nearly two months, until a job came up in Capetown that Arthur learned about through another source.

They don’t talk about Auckland.

~

Arthur _does_ have a problem with Eames wearing his favorite Burberry shirt, even though he can’t really wear it himself. He can’t really wear _anything_ in his wardrobe without looking like a kid who’s rummaged through his dad’s closet—not that his dad dressed even half as well as Arthur does, but still. Traveling with a half dozen bespoke suits has its disadvantages, especially when one suddenly finds oneself three inches shorter and a good twenty pounds lighter.

He very, very reluctantly considers the possibility of buying himself a pair of jeans—Arthur thinks wistfully of his True Religions back home in his apartment and for once regrets never bringing jeans with him on jobs—when Ariadne appears at his door, a very determined look on her face.

“This is ridiculous,” she says. “Eames can’t just wander around in a wife-beater and pants two sizes too big, and don’t even get me started on you. I’m sorry, but you both need some new clothes to tide you over. I’m going to take you shopping.”

“I can take myself shopping,” Arthur mutters defensively, even though a part of him wants to be contrary and do no such thing, just keep stumbling on the hems of his suit and rolling up his sleeves and pretending everything’s normal.

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “But you won’t, and we both know it. And I can’t exactly send Eames out into the wild alone, god only knows what he’d bring back.”

Arthur has a brief moment where he sincerely regrets asking her to be their architect. “He’s not a goddamn _wolf baby_.”

“No, but close enough. Did you know he’s spent the past hour taking pictures of himself with my phone? He keeps _flexing_ and making kissing faces. I might be scarred for life.”

Arthur sags against the door frame. “Fine, but we’re only getting the essentials. If Yusuf can’t fix this in the next couple of days, then...” _Then I’m putting myself under until he does._

“We’re only going to The Gap, it’s not like you’ll be buying anything you’ll wear once you’re Big Arthur again.”

“Don’t call me that, and god, _seriously_ , isn’t there, like, at least a Banana Republic around here, or an Armani Exchange, or—”

She grabs him by the arm, yanking him into the hallway. “Please, like you didn’t wear Gap in high school.”

“That’s not the point. I’m not _in_ high school anymore.”

Ariadne gives him a sympathetic smile that makes Arthur glower. “It’s just a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts, Arthur. No one’s gonna judge you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Arthur mumbles, and gives in to the urge to sulk.

~

The impromptu shopping trip isn’t as bad as Arthur expected.

It’s exponentially worse.

“These _are_ dark rinse,” Ariadne huffs loudly as she dumps another pile of jeans into his arms. “I’m not letting you out of here until you pick a pair, Arthur, and so far you’ve vetoed every damn piece of denim in the store.”

“It’s just—these are, like.” Arthur wracks his brain for another word besides _wrong_. “This may come as a shock to you, but I’m picky about my jeans, and this place _sucks_ and I don’t want to waste money here.” Not his best argument, but whatever.

She raises an eyebrow, then says plainly, “Is this because of Eames and the boxer briefs? Is that why you’re being a teenage douchebag?”

“ _No_. How is that even relevant to this discussion?”

“Because ever since that nice, patient sales girl started helping him out you’ve been pretty much unbearable.”

Arthur fidgets with the mound of jeans in his arms. It’s not his fault Eames zeroed in on the first attractive person in the store and proceeded to talk _underwear_ with her where Arthur could hear every word. Since then, the sales girl’s been giggling at him and playing with her hair, following him around the store—god, she can’t be more than eighteen, tops. Eames is such a perv.

“See, there you go again.” Ariadne sighs. “Just—go try these on. Please. And stop trying to kill Eames with your brain before you rupture something.”

He doesn’t argue with her, mostly because he’s tired of watching Eames flirt like he’s having the time of his life. Arthur’s seen Eames flirt plenty of times, but never like this—his smile is wide and almost sloppy, the corner of his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his nose scrunched up as he laughs.

Eames looks...he looks like a teenager with a crush when he smiles like that.

Arthur maybe slams the dressing room door a little too hard. Fuck it, he’s got every right to be pissed. This isn’t a game, they’re not supposed to be _enjoying_ this. He has half a mind to go back out there and inform Little Miss Teen America that Eames is technically thirty-two and a criminal.

He’s yanking on the first pair of offensive jeans, frowning for the millionth time at his too-skinny reflection in the mirror, when the door flies open and Eames barrels into Arthur, knocking him into the opposite wall.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Arthur hisses, scrambling to button his jeans. Not that Eames hasn’t seen him naked, but—that’s not a thought to be having right now.

“What do you think?” Eames holds his arms out. He’s wearing a dark gray t-shirt with _Brooklyn Riders_ in large block letters across the front. The material looks very worn, soft, and Arthur has a sudden insane, overwhelming urge to press his face against the curve of Eames’ shoulder.

“It’s too small,” Arthur says darkly, hugging his arms to his chest.

“Not the shirt—although your opinion is duly noted, darling, thank you—I meant the jeans. I’ve never worn skinny jeans in my life.”

There’s something about the way _darling_ sounds in Eames’ younger voice that makes Arthur’s stomach do a weird fluttering thing. “You don’t need to wear skinny jeans, Eames.”

“Well, _need_ is a strong word, but _want_ is quite another. Chelsea said they made my arse look nice.”

“Of course Chelsea said that.” Arthur snorts. “And of course her fucking name is _Chelsea_. She’s probably still in high school, ever think about that?”

Eames has the balls to look contemplative. “Honestly? I hadn’t really thought about it...” He squints at himself in the mirror, wiggling his ass a little. “But really, d’you think they work?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and does not for one second look at Eames’ ass. “Since when do you come to me for fashion advice?”

“I don’t want to look like an idiot, and forgive me for having not been a teenager for a good decade or so.”

“Oh, like I have?”

“Everything looks good on you and you know it.”

He’s not expecting the abrupt compliment at all, and Arthur can’t help the way his stomach flips. “Obviously you never knew me at this age,” he mumbles, rubbing awkwardly at his neck.

When Arthur glances up, he finds Eames watching him with a familiar focused concentration.

“It’s not that bad, you know,” he says quietly.

“What is?”

“This. You.” Eames takes a step closer, and in the tiny confines of the dressing room Arthur doesn’t have anywhere to hide. He presses his back tight against the wall, hands fisted at his sides.

“I’m sorry I’m not enjoying myself as much as you,” Arthur says. “But some of us prefer being an adult and doing adult things.”

Eames shakes his head. Then, very slowly, he reaches up with two fingers and brushes Arthur’s hair out of his eyes. “What happened to you?” he asks softly. “You’re so...emotional. Touchy.”

“I’m always touchy with you.”

“No. This is different.” He smiles, and it’s oddly reminiscent of the smile he gave Chelsea earlier.

The dressing room is suddenly very stuffy. Arthur can’t breathe very well.

“Whatever, better not keep your new girlfriend waiting,” he says dismissively. The adult in him is appalled, but right now Arthur is all about being irrational.

And apparently, Eames feels the same. His flirty smile quickly changes into something darker, and he mutters, “Oh, fuck off,” before slamming the door closed behind him.

Later, Arthur throws a pair of jeans and a couple of long-sleeved t-shirts at Ariadne. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Do you mind telling me what the hell just happened?” she asks, sounding more perplexed than angry. “Eames just threw a wad of cash at the cute little sales girl and stomped out. Did you guys fight or something?”

Arthur just shakes his head. “He’s fine, trust me. Can we just go?”

Ariadne sighs heavily just as the aforementioned sales girl appears.

“Are you ready to check out?” she asks.

“Might as well,” Ariadne replies, giving Arthur the evil eye. “Since there’s really no reasoning with a stubborn _teenager_.”

Arthur opens his mouth to give a biting retort, but the sales girl smiles and says, “I think it’s sweet you took your little brother shopping. Most big sisters don’t have that kind of patience.”

Ariadne nearly chokes on her tongue.

Arthur ends up paying because Ariadne can barely talk through the tears of laughter.

“I fucking hate you,” he growls on their way out of the store.

“Hush,” she says, still gasping for air, “or I’ll tell Mom to ground you for a week.”

~

Eames doesn’t come back to the hotel. Arthur pretends he doesn’t care.

But when night comes, Ariadne asks, “Seriously, Arthur, what did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” he says, flopping face-first onto his bed. If Eames is pissed at him, that’s his problem.

Eventually Ariadne leaves him alone, and he drags himself out to the balcony to smoke. He realizes belatedly that his lungs just can’t handle nicotine; he didn’t pick up the habit until he was nineteen.

He’s coughing and swearing a blue streak when he hears knocking at his hotel room door. Arthur throws the cigarette away, vowing to quit the moment he’s himself again.

“I told you, it’s not my fault, Ariadne,” he calls, voice raspy and slightly breathless. “Eames can do whatever the fuck he wants, I’m not the one—”

Arthur opens the door to find Eames standing there with his lip split and his knuckles covered in blood.

Arthur’s stomach drops. “Christ, what did you do?”

Blood is trickling down Eames’ chin, but he shrugs and tries to smirk. “Tried to sneak into a pub. Guess it’s not as easy as I remembered.”

“Fucking hell, you could’ve gotten _arrested_.” Without thinking, Arthur tugs him into the room by the wrist, and pushes him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Don’t move.”

“Are you gonna patch me up, Arthur?” Eames looks up at him with eyes too bright and his smile too lazy, and that’s when it hits him.

“You’re drunk.”

“Fantastically so, yes.”

“But—” Arthur flails his hand at Eames’ face. “You got the shit beat out of you.”

“I never said I didn’t get _into_ the pub. It was only when I attempted to lift a rather burly gentleman’s wallet that things got...difficult.”

Arthur rubs the heel of his hand over his forehead. “Is this what it was like for you? Bar fights before you were seventeen?” His impressions of Eames’ past are based entirely on conjecture. Eames has never discussed it, and Arthur has never asked.

Eames slides his tongue over his lip, licking tentatively at the blood smeared there. “Sometimes,” he says. “It was one of my preferred methods of rebellion, as a politican’s son.”

Arthur goes very still. “You never told me your father was—”

“You never asked.” Eames is still loose-limbed with intoxication, but his eyes are suddenly very clear.

“It’s none of my business.”

“No, of course not.” He falls back onto the bed and groans.

“Don’t bleed all over my bed.”

“Then get a bloody move on,” Eames mumbles, one arm flung over his eyes, sounding more like an idiot drunk kid who lost a fight and less like he’s _wounded_ by Arthur’s feigned lack of curiosity.

Arthur sets his jaw and wipes the blood from Eames lip as best he can with a wet cloth, holding himself a good several inches away on the bed so their bodies don’t touch. It’s pathetic, but he doesn’t trust himself like this, especially when Eames sighs and leans into Arthur’s hand.

“Sorry if I’m hurting you,” Arthur says, hating the softness in his voice, the tightness in his chest.

“'s fine.” Eames drops his arm, and he gazes up at Arthur with a look that’s far too vulnerable. “You’re softer this way, y'know. Less sharp around the edges. I like it.” Eames lifts a hand in a sloppy attempt to maybe touch Arthur’s cheek, but Arthur shoves it back down on the bed.

“You need to go to sleep.” Fuck, it’s as if his pulse has a mind of its own. Even beaten to hell and bruised, Eames is still gorgeous, and right now he’s spread out on Arthur’s bed staring up at him, lips parted and eyes slightly glassy. It’s like the universe is trying to play some sick joke on him, reminding him of what he can’t have.

“D’you think about it?” Eames suddenly whispers as he slowly, carefully lifts himself up onto his elbows.

His stupid, gorgeous mouth is now dangerously close to Arthur’s, but being sixteen means Arthur no longer has an ounce of resistance or common sense. He doesn’t lean back, just swallows hard and tries to ignore the heat rushing up his neck.

“About what?” he breathes.

“About New Zealand,” Eames says, “about Auckland.”

Thirty-year-old Arthur would barely blink, but sixteen-year-old Arthur doesn’t yet possess his own unique poker face. He flinches, ducks his head quickly to hide the tell as he bites his lip. “No,” he lies. “I don’t.”

“You’re a bloody awful liar, love.” The corner of Eames’ mouth twitches into a smirk.

“Do you?” Arthur fires back with a glare.

The smirk gets a little darker, a little nastier. “You’re only asking because I asked.”

“I want to know.”

“Auckland was a great fuck, end of story. What more is there to think about?”

 _I said I loved you_. Arthur can’t help the fierce blush that floods his cheeks, and he tries his damnedest to funnel the heat into anger. He half succeeds.

“Nothing,” he whispers, rising from the bed, tossing the blood-stained cloth onto the floor of the bathroom. “Just go to sleep, Eames.”

He doesn’t know if he expects Eames to push more, but he’s surprised when Eames sighs and murmurs, “Yeah, sleep,” before rolling onto his side and promptly passing out.

Arthur tucks himself into the armchair on the other side of the room, and several hours later, he falls asleep the sounds of Eames’ soft, drunken snuffles.

~

He hadn’t meant to say it.

But the combination of alcohol and leftover adrenaline and several years’ worth of tension collided in one perfect moment of sweat-slick skin and bare muscle and Eames braced above him, face slack as he rolled his hips into Arthur, gasping, “Fuck, I never thought—you’re more than I’d hoped for, so much more, _Arthur_ —”

And then it happened, quick and breathless with Arthur’s hands tangled in Eames’ hair, his mouth pressed against Eames’ ear.

“Love you,” Arthur said, like a shared secret. Like Eames already knew.

Eames had made a sound, a cross between a groan and a laugh, shoulders shuddering. Arthur had felt it when Eames came a split second later, teeth biting into the curve of Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur had felt _owned_ and _wanted_ , all at once.

He’d heard Eames whisper shakily, “‘Bout bloody goddamn time,” and then Arthur gritted his teeth and came.

His throat felt sore after, and he’d realized with a hazy smile that he’d screamed Eames’ name a half dozen times.

~

Yusuf says he’s close to developing a formula to reverse the effects. Almost.

“I should, perhaps, run a few more tests before—”

 _”No,”_ Arthur growls, getting a hard smack to his shoulder from Ariadne.

Yusuf sighs. “Being reckless isn’t going to speed up the process.”

“The kid’s surgery is in _three days_ , okay, this is not my fucking fault.”

“Arthur.” Ariadne pinches his arm. “Yusuf’s doing his best, don’t be a dick.”

Easy for her to say, she’s not stumbling around in an outdated version of her own body. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I’m sorry, just—remember we’re on a schedule here.”

“Eames said the job was on hold until—”

“Eames isn’t in charge here, I am. And I say that we stick to the plan.”

Yusuf and Ariadne exchange a look, one that explicitly says Arthur is being irrational. “You know, it’s not like we’re working for Cobol here,” Ariadne says carefully, using a tone of voice Arthur remembers his mother employing whenever she was telling him something he didn’t want to hear. “If we call the whole thing off, I seriously doubt the dad’s going to be too upset with us to even—”

“No one’s calling anything off,” Arthur says sharply, jaw clenched tight. His heart’s pounding too heavily, and he can feel the slight angry tremor in his hands. “Just get the goddamn formula to work.” He pauses, then adds a little too loudly, “And where the fuck is Eames?”

Ariadne shrugs. “Haven’t seen him all morning. I figured he was with you.”

Eames is most definitely not with him. With a terrible sense of déjà vu, Arthur had woken that morning to find his bed empty and Eames nowhere to be found. He’s been on edge ever since, wavering between wanting to pound his fist into Eames’ face and kiss him roughly, just to see what Eames would do, just to get it out of his system.

It might also have something to do with the sudden overwhelming urge to jerk off every other hour. Arthur doesn’t remember ever being this excruciatingly horny in his life, and it’s so _annoying_ and _ridiculous_ , and really, how did he ever function at this age?

Irrational or not, he blames everything on Eames.

~

He can’t stay cooped up in his hotel room, not after a half dozen texts to Eames go unanswered.

Arthur can feel himself steadily giving over to anxious dread that the job is totally fucked. He tries scribbling out various alternatives in his Moleskine to clear his head, but he can’t focus anymore, his thoughts a blur of frustrated doubt and anger, all cobbled together with images of Eames from the night before, his eyes wide and dark, his mouth a bare few inches from Arthur’s. He knows what it’s like to kiss Eames, but of course it would be different now. He can’t stop turning the possibilities over and over again in his mind.

He finally gives up on being productive and storms out of the hotel, not even bothering to text Ariadne about his whereabouts. He knows it’s terribly juvenile, but right now he just needs to be somewhere that doesn’t make him think of failure...or Eames. Or both.

The neighborhood is completely unfamiliar to him; it’s an older suburban part of the city, full of specialty shops and diners. He desperately needs a cigarette, so he digs out his Marlboros, cups his hand around the flame, and forces himself to take a deep drag, hoping the rest of his body will remember how much it enjoys having nicotine in his bloodstream. He leans against a brick wall just outside a coffee shop, coughing after each puff as he curls deeper into his leather jacket.

“Spot me a fag, love?”

Arthur startles at the warm breath sliding across his neck. He spins around, nearly jamming the cigarette into Eames’ cheek.

“What the hell, where have you been?” To his chagrin, his voice totally lacks the biting, accusatory tone he’s going for.

Eames gives a quick laugh and easily steals the cigarette from Arthur’s fingers. “Were you looking for me, or just doing your best Holden Caulfield impression?”

“I woke up and you were gone,” Arthur hears himself say without thinking, and suddenly his face feels far too hot.

Eames’ smile falters. “Yeah, well, I...” He looks away, and there is something very much like a blush in his cheeks. “I figured I’d imposed on you long enough, y’know? I didn’t really have any intention of barging in on you last night.”

Arthur’s stomach doesn’t sink in disappointment, it _doesn’t_. “So you just thought you’d disappear again this morning when we have a fucking job to do,” he snaps, grabbing the cigarette back.

“What if I told you I disappeared _because_ of the job?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Right.”

He’s not quite prepared for Eames to slide his fingers around Arthur’s wrist and tug lightly. “Let me show you something,” he says in a soft voice.

Arthur’s entire body goes on alert, half eager to press forward, half frantic to pull away from Eames’ touch. “What is it?”

“Just trust me on this, please?” Eames’ expression is suddenly very open and very young, as if he needs Arthur’s approval. He squeezes Arthur’s wrist once.

“Okay,” Arthur says, breathless. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be breathless—he should be furious at Eames, but his entire focus has narrowed to Eames’ fingers against his pulse point.

Eames doesn’t let go as he pulls Arthur down an alleyway that opens into a side street. They turn the corner, and Arthur glances up to see a flickering old neon sign advertising Larry’s Arcade hanging above them.

He grits his teeth. “You brought me to a fucking arcade, Eames? Really?”

Eames holds up one finger. “You said you’d trust me.” He pushes open the rickety glass door and ushers Arthur inside.

The place is dark and musty. An ancient jukebox plays Kid Rock at obnoxious levels over the clanging sounds of video games. The floor is sticky and covered in old popcorn remnants.

Arthur is kind of smitten, especially when he catches a glimpse of a vintage Star Wars game in the corner. “Oh my god, The Empire Strikes Back,” he breathes, his hands suddenly twitching to feel the controls.

“Good memories?” Eames asks, and Arthur would probably ponder the affectionate lilt to his words were he not so entranced.

“I played that game for hours every day after school, until the arcade near my house went out of business. My mom got the Atari version for my birthday, but it just wasn’t the same.”

He’s vaguely aware of Eames’ fingers sliding down his wrist to skim over his palm. There’s a brief moment where their fingers sort of tangle together before Eames drops his hand and nudges Arthur’s shoulder.

“While I appreciate your adorable reminiscing, that’s not why I brought you here.” He jerks his chin toward the back of the arcade.

Arthur follows Eames’ gaze to find a skinny blond-haired boy hunched over the controls of a Mortal Kombat game, eyes narrowed in concentration, wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose.

It’s Quentin Randall.

“How—how did you—?”

“When I woke up this morning with a bloody hangover, I decided to go try my hand at buying smokes again. As I was wandering into the closest shop, I spotted Randall on the street and promptly followed him here. He’s been here ever since.” Eames pauses, adding quietly, “So you see, I didn’t just abandon you.”

Arthur keeps his eyes forward and doesn’t acknowledge that last bit. “Did you talk to him?”

“Um, no. That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t—”

“Think about it, Arthur.” Eames grabs his wrist again and tugs him over toward the air hockey table that looks as if it hasn’t been touched in years. “This entire time we thought Randall was nothing but a bookworm obsessed with spelling and academia, but we were wrong. He _does_ like teenage things, or he wouldn’t spend hours latched onto the same game, which tells me that his heart isn’t completely wrapped up in winning spelling contests.”

Eames’ expression is intensely sharp, and it’s the same expression he always gets just before he lays out a brilliant plan. There’s more excitement, more giddy anticipation in sixteen-year-old Eames’ wide eyes, but the intensity is still there. And Arthur finds it as arousing at sixteen as he does at thirty.

“So where do I fit into all this?” Arthur asks, swallowing tightly around a sudden tug of longing in his chest.

“We don’t need to kidnap him from the oral surgeon. All we need is for you to befriend him, get him alone for a bit, and then put him under for an hour. We’ll be in and out easily.”

“ _Befriend_ him? Eames, how can I possibly make friends with a fifteen-year-old spelling bee champ?”

Eames smiles at him, and this time the affection is obvious. “Look at our current conditions, darling,” he says. “Tell me you don’t feel the slightest bit of camaraderie with Randall at the moment?”

Arthur looks over his shoulder at Randall. The kid’s mouth is scrunched to one side, but then he makes a good move and laughs, fist-pumping the air. A couple of older boys walk past him in the meantime, shoving into Randall’s shoulder to knock him into the machine. He glares after the boys, but eventually shakes his head and goes back to his game as if nothing happened.

But Arthur recognizes the angry flush in his cheeks, the pinch above his eyes. It’s the look of someone who’s used to being bullied.

“All right,” Arthur says. “Let’s do this.” If anything, this kid needs to know there’s a lot more to life than winning contests and avoiding douchebags in arcades.

Eames does his own version of Randall’s fist-pump. “Excellent, I’ll go get PASIV.”

“Bring Ariadne, too, just in case.”

“Of course.” And then, without warning, Eames kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth, quick and chaste.

Arthur’s entire face explodes with heat. He jerks back, blinking owlishly at Eames. “Um.”

Eames bites his lip, looking quickly down at the floor, cheeks bright pink as well. “Yeah, um, sorry. I didn’t—that is, I should probably—” He flails his hand at the door, taking a step back.

“Yeah, go get the stuff, sure. I’ll be okay.” Arthur barely even knows what he’s saying. He wants to be angry, because Eames kissing him is the last thing he needs right now.

But he just feels dazed.

Eames nods jerkily, stumbling over his feet as he runs out the door.

~

It’s so much easier than Arthur expected.

He walks straight up to Randall, who eyes him warily until Arthur says, “Hey,” in that casual-yet-aloof teenage way.

“Hey,” Randall replies, smiling tentatively. “Did you want this game? I’m almost done, just give me five minutes.”

Arthur shrugs. “Naw, I’m good. Actually, have you played Empire Strikes Back? It’s awesome.” He almost wishes Eames were there to see his impressive acting skills.

Randall frowns in thought. “I don’t think so...is it here?”

“Yeah, c’mon, I’ll show you.”

“I’m, uh, Quentin, by the way,” Randall says a few minutes later when Arthur’s showing him the general gist of the game and trying not to geek out over how much he’s missed it.

Arthur smiles, feeling a rush of empathy for the kid and how hard he’s trying not be eager for a new friend. “I’m Arthur.”

“Do you go to school around here?”

“No, I’m...visiting family in the area. I got bored and found this place.”

Randall sighs wistfully. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. I live a few blocks away and like to come here to unwind sometimes. Y’know, turn my brain off.”

Arthur suddenly thinks about what Eames would do if he were forging and trying to get information from the mark. _Always keep them talking about themselves_ , Eames had once told him.

“This is probably gonna sound dumb, but you look familiar,” Arthur says, squinting at Randall for good measure. “You’re not, like, famous or something, are you?”

Randall immediately flushes. “Oh, uh, yeah,” he laughs awkwardly, “I’m kind of the National Spelling Bee champion.”

“Kind of?” Arthur grins.

“Okay, I _am_ the Spelling Bee champion. It’s just something I’ve always done; my mom started training me when I was little. It’s weird, I know.” His eyes are trained on the video game screen as Arthur maneuvers his X-wing fighter against enemy ships.

“No, it sounds cool.”

Randall shrugs one shoulder. “I guess.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Eames slip in the front door of the arcade with a silver metal case in hand, Ariadne close behind him. Eames meets his eyes and beams, giving him a thumbs-up. It’s horribly dorky, yet horribly adorable.

“So hey, you want to give it a go now?” he asks, motioning Randall to take the controls.

“Sure, yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Once Randall is engrossed in the game, Arthur finally smiles at Eames over his shoulder.

Ariadne whispers something in Eames’ ear, making him wrinkle his nose and duck his head as he elbows her in the side. She laughs, and Eames looks embarrassed.

Arthur can’t let himself think too hard about it. They’re in the middle of a job, after all.

~

In the end, Arthur’s fairly certain Randall didn’t really need inception. A week or two hanging out with Arthur would have easily convinced him that spelling bees aren’t everything.

Needless to say, the job goes spectacularly well. Eames doesn’t even bother forging; he and Arthur go in as themselves, and Randall’s subconscious, having already trusted Arthur in the real world, immediately accepts them. Arthur has never seen projections actually try to _interact_ with them before, but here, in this state-of-the-art arcade (a last minute adjustment on Ariadne’s part), they find themselves surrounded by teenage projections eager to play the latest games.

Randall is wide-eyed and blissfully happy, and when Eames points to a TV screen with Randall’s face on it, the boy simply shrugs and says, “I used to be into it, when I was a kid.”

Arthur slings an arm around Randall’s shoulders, giving Eames a high five. They wake up ten minutes later in the back storage room of the arcade.

“I feel bad just leaving him here,” Ariadne says as they pull the IV from Randall’s arm.

“You shouldn’t,” Arthur replies with a grin. “When he wakes up, he’ll see the world in a whole new light.”

“You’re going to miss your new little friend, aren’t you?” Eames says in a teasing voice. “Maybe I should tell Yusuf to hold off on the new formula.” There’s a hint of something else in his tone, almost like...like he’s _jealous_.

“Yes, Eames, because I’d much rather be a painfully awkward teenager than a filthy rich adult.” He gives Eames a withering look, but he wants to shake him and demand to know what on earth he has to be jealous of when _he_ left _Arthur_.

They’re all packed up and ready to go, Randall still sound asleep in his chair, when Ariadne’s phone chimes with a text.

“Well, the wait’s over, you two,” she says. “Yusuf says he’s isolated the compound. You’ll be ridiculously immature adults again in no time.”

~

“Nothing’s happening.”

Yusuf rolls his eyes. “I never said it was instantaneous, Arthur. Please, have some patience.”

“I’ve been a teenager for almost four days, I think that’s plenty of patience.”

Ariadne pinches his arm again, hard. “Manners, please.”

Eames is staring down at his hands as if they’ll change before his eyes. “So...how will we know when it’s working?”

“That I can’t be sure of. It could take several days, or a few hours. I just can’t say for certain.”

“Didn’t the initial change happen when we went under?” Arthur asks. “Could that affect the reverse as well?”

Yusuf taps his pencil against his mouth. “It’s possible...”

Arthur points a finger at Eames. “Get set up, we’re going to sleep.”

Eames blinks at him. “But whose dream are we using?”

“At this point, I don’t care.”

~

He doesn’t expect to find himself on the balcony of a very familiar hotel room. A hotel room with a lovely view of a New Zealand shoreline.

Arthur sighs. “Seriously, Eames, why here?” he mutters to himself.

“This isn’t my dream, it’s yours.” Eames comes out onto the balcony, arms hugged to his chest. They’re still teenagers, which makes it even more disconcerting. Arthur doesn’t want to relive this place as an adult, let alone as an adolescent.

He leans against the iron railing, mimicking Eames’ posture. “Okay, fine, it’s my dream. I didn’t mean to bring us back here.”

“I think you did.” Eames takes a step closer, and the warm Pacific air whips at his hair. “The subconscious doesn’t lie, darling.” Eames is wearing the same clothes he wore that night—pressed khakis shorts and a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. Arthur remembers catching glimpses of Eames’ tattoos under his open collar, but now there’s nothing but tanned skin.

Arthur glances down at himself, at the gray trousers he never wore again once he left Auckland. The plain white Dunhill shirt is still one of his favorites, but he doesn’t wear it much anymore, either. He has plenty of white shirts.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks softly without looking up. “I’m sorry?”

“For what? For remembering Auckland?”

Arthur winces, pushes the unruly hair out of his eyes. “You were right—I am a shitty liar.”

“That was never in question.” He can see Eames coming closer, his feet appearing in Arthur’s line of sight. “Tell me something, Arthur: why do you hate being this age? Why does it upset you so?”

Arthur snorts and finally meets Eames’ eyes with a bitter smirk. “Really? You have to ask?”

“Indulge me.”

“It’s easy for someone like you to ask, isn’t it? Because, god, look at you, you’re—” Arthur flushes hotly, gritting his teeth. “You’re perfect. Like you always knew your place in the world, like you never doubted yourself for a second.”

Eames laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “Is that what you honestly think? That I had my shit together at sixteen and my life was just one big cakewalk?”

“I know your type, Eames, and you—”

“My _type_.” Something breaks in him, and suddenly he’s in Arthur’s face, shoving him up against the railing. “What type is that? The type who spent his childhood being ignored by a father with far too many political ambitions? Who fell in love with a boy during sixth form who decided he preferred shagging girls? Or maybe the type who leaves university after a year because he can’t bloody decide where the hell he fits in the world. Is that my type, love?”

Arthur’s throat has gone completely dry, heart pounding so fiercely he swears Eames can hear it. “I—you never—”

“I never told you? Why would I? You don’t _care_ , Arthur, and you’ve always made that abundantly clear.” Eames’ smile is dangerous, dark. “I know your type, too.”

Arthur holds his breath. “And what am I?”

“Frightened, small. You felt too much and you got hurt easily. You didn’t think anyone wanted you, and you were probably right, because they could see your lack of faith in yourself.”

A part of him knows Eames is trying his hand at self-preservation, but it still stings. He shoves at Eames’ chest, but Eames is a solid, unmoving wall.

“Congratulations, you fucking figured me out,” says Arthur. “I am—was—a scared, skinny kid who didn’t know shit about shit and hated the world because I couldn’t figure it out. I had a crush on a girl my sophomore year who said kissing me was like kissing her brother. I ran track because it was the only sport I could do without looking like a total idiot. I got the shit beat out of me half a dozen times before I graduated, and yes, I did try to fight back. Does that answer your question?”

Eames doesn’t pull back. “What was the girl’s name? The one who compared you to her brother.”

“Stephanie. Who was the guy who chose girls over you?”

“Jonathan.”

Arthur’s chest clenches at the way Eames says the name. “You make it hard to care,” he whispers.

Eames flinches, his mouth twisting to the side. “I see. At least we’re being honest.”

“No, you don’t get it, I—” Arthur shoves his hair back and groans with frustration. “How am I supposed to care about you when you fucking _leave_ me all the time?”

Eames’ eyes go wide. “I—”

“I thought we were a _team_ , you and I, and I wanted—I thought you’d—I don’t know what I thought would happen that night, but I was drunk, and you were drunk, and I was just so goddamn _happy_ , and you were all over me, telling me all the things you wanted to do to me, and god, fuck, _Eames_ , I wanted you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my fucking life, and the next morning you were gone, like—like it didn’t mean anything to you. And you didn’t even blink when you saw me in Capetown.”

“I didn’t—”

“No, it’s like you said—Auckland was a good fuck, nothing more.” His voice cracks, and his hands are shaking. Now would be a perfect time for the formula to kick in.

“Arthur—”

“Whatever.” He shoves at Eames’ chest again, harder this time, and Eames finally stumbles back. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. But you should know that I did care, probably a lot more than I should have, more than you’ll ever know.”

The look in Eames’ eyes is painfully open, and Arthur wishes he didn’t know what this young version of him looked like—wishes he couldn’t compare the sly, calculating man with the vulnerable boy standing before him, the same boy who just admitted to having his heart broken and being just as lost in the world as Arthur. He wishes he didn’t have both sides of a whole, reminding him that he’s still in love, that he’ll probably _always_ be in love.

“‘Did’?” Eames whispers. “As in past tense?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, shoulders sagging in defeat. “No,” he says helplessly.

If the unexpected chaste kiss in the arcade had thrown Arthur off-kilter, then the sudden fierceness of Eames pressing him once more into the iron railing to kiss him breathless leaves Arthur reeling. It’s not a gentle kiss at all; it’s all teeth and heat and Eames gasping Arthur’s name over and over as he pulls at Arthur’s clothes.

“I heard you say it,” Eames breathes against Arthur’s mouth, hands tugging at buttons, frantic and inelegant. “I heard you say the words and thought—god, I don’t know, I thought you’d come to your senses in the morning and claim it was a mistake, heat of the moment, but—but Arthur, _Arthur_ , you scare me to death sometimes, and I just couldn’t—I couldn’t stand to hear you take those words back.”

“So you left,” Arthur says, groaning as he sinks his teeth into Eames’ bottom lip.

“I left, but I regret it every day, love, I swear.”

Arthur doesn’t want to talk anymore, partly because Eames’ confession is enough for him, and partly because he’s still sixteen and is technically a virgin. He knows what sex feels like, but somehow this all feels new and he’s suddenly _starving_ for release, countless jerk-off sessions not-withstanding, and with Eames’ weight against him and his heat surrounding him, Arthur can only take so much.

He isn’t aware of the tiny little embarrassing mewling noises coming from the back of his throat until Eames pulls back slightly and laughs, nuzzling at Arthur’s temple.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

“Fuck off,” Arthur gasps, shoving his hips up as he whimpers again and _shudders_.

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Eames practically growls. To Arthur’s dismay, he stops all together and tugs Arthur back into the room, tumbling him onto the plush bed covers.

“You’re not actually taking my virginity—you know this, right?” Arthur tries for condescension, but he only sounds desperate and needy as he shoves his pants and underwear down his legs.

“A boy can dream, can’t he?” Eames purrs against Arthur’s mouth, splaying his hand over Arthur’s ribs and then sliding it lower, palming Arthur’s cock, stroking him once.

Even that’s too much. “ _God_ , just—stop, please, just get the lube, god _damn_ it, fucking teenage hair trigger—”

Eames grins, producing a _giant_ bottle of lube. “Am I going to have to talk you through this? I’d hate to traumatize you your first time—”

“You’re going to traumatize me if you don’t fuck me right now, oh my god.” He would swear he’s never been this hard in his life, and if Eames so much as breathes on his cock he’ll go off. It’s irritating as hell, but also kind of thrilling, because instinctively he knows he’ll be able to get it back up within five minutes.

He doesn’t need fingers—this is a dream after all—but Eames still slicks his entire hand and slides one finger slowly into Arthur’s ass, hissing softly. “Jesus, you’re tight.”

It’s like Arthur’s body has completely forgotten what sex is like; the feeling of Eames’ finger is exhilarating, foreign. He shifts against the bed, torn between grinding down and pulling away.

“Can you take a second one?”

 _Of course I can_. “I...think so?” He doesn’t mean for his voice to lilt into a question.

Eames adds a second finger slowly, so slowly, watching Arthur the whole time with wide, dark eyes. His arms are shaking, like it’s taking everything in him to hold back. “I wish I’d had this, had _you_ like this,” he whispers.

Arthur laughs, ragged and breathless. “Right, you would’ve been so into fucking a virgin at sixteen.”

Eames shakes his head. “I would’ve been so into fucking _you_ ,” he says, leaning down to lick possessively into Arthur’s mouth. He twists his fingers just so, making Arthur moan and arch off the bed.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready, please, _fuck_ , Eames—”

“Yes, god, yes.” He pulls his fingers free, stripping his slick hand over his cock a few times. Arthur watches, holding his breath—shit, has it always been that big? For one crazy, insane moment, Arthur worries if Eames’ dick will even fit.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he moans out loud, squeezing his eyes shut. Apparently his brain is convinced he’s virgin, too.

The first time he’d had sex with another guy, Arthur was twenty and just about to leave college for the military. He’d gotten drunk with his roommate, Tyler, and the two of them had ended up fooling around. It had been fairly quick and relatively painless, but there wasn’t really any romance involved. Arthur had considered it a good experience.

But it’s nothing compared to Eames braced above him, one hand tangled with Arthur’s above his head and the other cupped around Arthur’s hip to hold him steady as Eames guides himself in, inch by inch, until he’s all the way inside. Arthur feels stretched and full, and when he opens his eyes and tries to breathe, Eames kisses his cheek.

“You all right?” he asks shakily, nudging his nose against Arthur’s.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He flexes his hand within Eames’, lifts his hips just enough to make Eames groan. “You gonna move anytime soon or what?”

Eames laughs but still says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“We’re in a dream, for one, and two, I’m _not_ actually a goddamn virgin.” Arthur rolls his hips again, nipping at Eames’ mouth. “ _Move._ ”

Eames doesn’t argue with him again.

It’s still slow, almost gentle, even when Arthur carefully lifts his leg and wraps it around Eames’ waist. Eames pants against Arthur’s chin and makes gorgeous little sounds whenever Arthur pushes back. Arthur’s normally more vocal during sex, but he’s too busy willing himself not to come immediately. He doesn’t even touch himself, the friction between his stomach and Eames’ too overwhelming.

“You’re amazing,” Eames gasps at one point, his voice breaking. Arthur bites his lip around a moan—a moan that might possibly be Eames’ name—and then Eames is shaking all over, crying out as his hips stutter against Arthur’s ass.

Arthur is so shocked that Eames comes first, it sets him off like a charge. He comes harder than he’s ever come in his life, and the orgasm feels as if it goes on forever.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he gasps, collapsing back against the sheets.

Eames, meanwhile, is breathless and beaming down at him, sweat running down his face. “How do you feel?” he asks.

Arthur stretches languidly, enjoying the ache in his muscles and the feeling of Eames still buried inside him. “I feel awesome.”

Eames’ smile morphs into something downright filthy as he slowly withdraws, then thrusts back into Arthur’s ass. “Wanna go again?”

That’s when Arthur realizes that they’re both still mostly hard, mind-melting orgasms be damned. Apparently there are perks to being sixteen and in a dreamscape.

He hooks both his heels at the small of Eames’ back, clenching his ass around Eames’ cock as he returns Eames’ filthy smirk.

“Definitely.”

~

What feels like several hours and numerous rounds later, Arthur wakes up from a post-coital nap to find a full-grown Eames sprawled across his chest. He smiles to himself as he trails a finger down the thick, black swirl of the tattoo on Eames’ bicep.

“Hey,” Arthur says quietly. “You’re back.”

Eames snuffles into Arthur’s skin before blinking up at him sleepily. A slow, contented smile spreads across his face. “So are you,” he whispers, kissing Arthur lazily.

~

They wake up to Yusuf breathing a sigh of relief and Ariadne grinning crookedly at the two of them.

“Better?” she asks.

Eames looks down at himself, runs tentative fingers over his cheeks. “Everything’s accounted for, I believe,” he says.

Arthur just watches him, groggy and sated and not caring one bit if the others can see.

“Arthur? You all right?” he hears Yusuf say.

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes. He’d be better if Eames were naked right now, but all things considered, everything’s perfect.

As if Eames reads his mind—and maybe he can, Arthur wouldn’t be surprised in the least—he turns his head to the side and gives Arthur the same contented grin he’d had in the dream. Maybe Arthur’s imaging it, but he would swear Eames’ mouth still looks slightly swollen and pink, bruised from hours of kissing.

He’s so devastatingly beautiful. The cocky, yet self-conscious boy with the knowing smirk wasn’t the same thing at all.

Arthur’s missed this version of Eames, but more than that, he’s missed knowing Eames is _his_.

“In case I forget to mention,” Eames says softly, “I love all your hard edges. Every last one.” He rolls onto his knees from his chair, sliding across the carpet until he’s nestled between Arthur’s legs. Arthur holds his breath as Eames reaches up, splays his warm palms over Arthur’s cheeks and kisses him, slow and sweet and a touch too deep for present company.

“Yeah, I’d say they’re okay,” Ariadne drawls. Arthur guesses she rolls her eyes at Yusuf, but he can’t be sure, since his eyes fluttered shut the moment Eames touched him.

Soon he hears the shuffling of feet and the door opening and closing quietly.

“This isn’t even our room,” Arthur breathes against Eames’ mouth.

Eames presses forward, caging Arthur’s body with both arms on either side of the chair. He nips sharply at Arthur’s lip. “Does it matter? No one actually sleeps here, after all.”

Arthur curls his hands into the soft cotton of Eames’ stupid Gap shirt, now two sizes too small and stretched tightly across his shoulders. “Good point,” he whispers. “Carry on.”

“Keep calm and don’t fear your youth,” Eames says, grinning into the kiss as his breathing turns shallow.

“Shut up, Mr. Eames.”

“Gladly.”

~

They don’t come quite as fast as teenagers, but it’s still pretty damn close.


End file.
